Page 105 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
Jeremy stumbled but didn’t go down. If he’d headed for Bluebell, Bram would have killed him. But he didn’t. Hestumbled past the man on his knees and headed away, blood rapidly darkening his shirt and coat.
Bloody hell. That was a lot of blood.
The third man—the one holding Bluebell—watched with terrified eyes as Bram adjusted his grip on the other knife. “It’s a close thing with you hiding behind her,” he said menacingly. “But I’m good with my knife. Or you can let her go, take your other man, and run.”
“Naw. Naw, I won’t—”
Bluebell twisted. Apparently, he’d loosened his hold enough that she could jerk her elbow back hard. She got him under the rib cage, and Bram heard the man’s breath explode out while she slithered down, right out of his hold.
Clear target. Open chest as he—
Bram held back throwing his knife. The man turned and ran. The one on his knees was a split second behind him.
Gone. They were gone.
And then she was in his arms.
“Are you all right?” she was asking. “Did he hurt you? Bram, talk to me.” She grabbed his face, turning him to stare at her and not down the alleyway. “Where are you hurt?”
“My jaw,” he muttered. “Right where you’re pressing.”
“Oh!” She jerked her hand back, but he had already wrapped his arms around her. He was holding her tight, smelling her cranesbill scent, and feeling the solid—alive—weight of her against him.
“What the bloody hell were you thinking?” he said into her hair.
“That you were outnumbered,” she said.
“I could have run. If you weren’t here, I would have—”
“And they would have chased you. And I wouldn’t have known how to follow. I was too far away. I couldn’t help.”
“You should have helped by staying safe. By staying away.”
“No. Never. I won’t.”
“Bluebell,” he groaned. Then he kissed her. He pressed his lips to hers, and thrust his tongue inside. He plundered her mouth, her sweetness, her everything, as she wrapped herself around him, gripping his shoulders tight. He loved every second of it. Every heavy weight, every gasping moan, every heaving second as they separated to breathe.
“Are you ’urt?” she said against his neck. “Tell me.”
“Hurt,” he corrected, emphasizing theh. “I’m fine.”
“He hit you pretty hard.”
He gestured weakly to the dented bed warmer. “So did you.”
She looked at the bed warmer that was now rubbish. “It was his head that was hard.” Then she smoothed her hand over his jaw, her touch both painful and infinitely sweet.
“Why were they here? What did they want?”
“They think I have Dicky’s money.”
She spat out a curse. “Not too smart, are they?”
He shrugged. “Jeremy has his own form of logic. He was embarrassed in front of his father and wanted someone to take it out on.”
“But why you?”
“Why not me? I tricked him. And he thought…” He swallowed.
